Paper Plane

• Luke Pfeiffer, Grade 6
• Poetry
• 2017

At the far end of town where little grass grows,
The vast smell of paper begins to blow.
An old wooden door begins to creak,
And small pathetic children begin to freak.

Peering at a window out flies a paper plane,
Hits me on the head and gives me a pain.
Small neat writing begins to unravel,
Slowly but surely on top of the gravel.

I make out a set of instructions,
That direct me past a few junctions.
Weaving in and out of streets,
I begin to get cramps in my feet.

Walking inside I read a note on the bench,
The note is as dirty as if it has been in a trench.
It reads thank you,
I will do some favours but only a few.